Wisdom
by Enkidu07
Summary: Still hurting Dean. Dean needs his wisdom teeth removed. And... Go!


**Title**: Wisdom**  
Author**: Enkidu07**  
Beta**: Mad Server, who rocks like a hurricane and a half. Seriously, like, the shutters were banging and shingles were blowing away.**  
Disclaimer**: Just playing.**  
A/N**: Inspired and also beta'ed by The Tribble Master. Thank you so much for the idea and the encouragement. Hope others can find some pleasure from your pain... I hope it floats your boat!

--

Dean hasn't eaten anything solid in two days.

Sam hasn't mentioned it yet. Picking his battles and all that.

Watching as Dean sits with forehead permanently scrunched and dinner untouched, he's ready to call it. All it takes is a few beats of silence and a knowing look, and Dean gets twitchy and defensive, and now it's just a matter of time.

"Hitting the head. Meet you outside." Dean's up and out. But as Sam takes care of the check, he knows that Dean knows that he knows.

At the hotel, Dean disappears into the bathroom. Toilet flushes. Water runs, extended brushing, toilet flushes again. Sam waits.

Dean's eyes flicker to Sam's as he exits, but then he's bustling around stuffing clothes in his bag, swigging some water and grunting, "Bathroom's yours."

Dean seems fine, but Sam's not buying it. He watches Dean for a minute but then gets himself ready for bed.

When Dean's starting to relax, boots off, reclined and exhaustion showing, Sam starts in softly.

"Stomach?"

Dean shakes his head, eyes still closed.

"Sick?"

A grunt. "M'fine."

Sam watches. Fine lines are apparent around Dean's eyes, complexion pale, breathing regulated, body tense.

"Headache?"

Dean shrugs half-heartedly. Bingo.

"Did you hit it?" Sam replays the Poltey hunt. They'd got out relatively unscathed... or so he'd thought. Sam moves closer. Sits on the edge of the bed. Doesn't touch, but scans Dean's hairline;sees him swallow, teeth clenched.

Not eating. Jackpot.

"Toothache?"

Dean opens his eyes on that one, looks at Sam, and sighs. "Maybe. Jaw hurts," he concedes. "Making my head hurt."

--

Sam's hard-won concession lands Dean in a busy waiting room, squeezed in between Sam and a petite woman apparently unaware of personal space or good oral hygiene.

"It's not that bad," he says, low enough for just Sam.

"You haven't had your teeth cleaned in a couple of years, Dean. Even if you weren't in pain, a checkup isn't a bad idea."

Dean sits back, head pounding, and rubs at his jaw.

Forty minutes later he's feeling exposed, essentially trapped in a plastic-covered reclining chair with a paper bib on and a bright light exacerbating his headache.

Dr. Sparks crowds into Dean's space, hands roaming from Dean's neck to his jaw. Dean opens and closes on command, acutely aware that his back is to the door.

As the doctor puts gentle pressure on Dean's lower jaw, the pain momentarily abates. The relief is welcome and Dean closes his eyes and gives in. He suffers amicably through the cleaning, heroically controls his gags reflex through x-ray torture, hums away the minutes while he waits for the dentist to return.

--

"What'd they say?" Sam asks, dogging Dean to the car, skillfully snagging the referral sheet from his hand. He slows down as he reads. "Wisdom teeth?"

His eyes flicker to Dean's back, then back to the sheet; he mutters, "Impacted... necessary extraction... call to schedule surgery... Crap, man." He turns sympathetic eyes on Dean, only to be rewarded by the slam of the car door and the immediate rev of the engine.

He hustles into the car before he is left standing on the side of the road.

It's a quiet drive back to the hotel. Sam's mind's on practicalities. The haunting can wait another week. He'll call the Roadhouse and see if Ellen can find someone to cover the Fire Walker up in Stanton. If Dean can see the oral surgeon soon, they can be in and out before their fake insurance sends up a red flag.

The dentist gave Dean some samples of pain meds and Dean spends the afternoon catching up on some shuteye. Sam realizes how tense Dean has been when he sees his face relax for the first time in days.

He knows Dean hasn't called for an appointment because he never took the referral sheet back. So, Sam avoids battle #2 and calls for an appointment while Dean is asleep.

At dinner, Dean makes a valiant attempt to eat. The third time Dean almost chokes on a bite of half-chewed burger, Sam breaks the news. "I got you an appointment tomorrow at 1. They had a cancellation and..." He trails off at Dean's glare.

"I can make my own appointments, Sam." Voice icy.

"Yeah. I know. But you were sleeping, and it's good that I called when I did, or we'd probably have had to wait around here for a week or two to get in."

Dean pushes his plate away. "Whatever." He throws some bills on the table. "Finish up. I'll meet you back at the hotel." He doesn't even sound mad. Just tired.

--

Dean's love of hospitals is surpassed onlyby his love of dentists.

And seeing a dentist at the hospital? Fan-freakin'-tastic.

Doctor McChuckles seems to be getting off on joking around with him. And since Dean really doesn't want to piss off the guy who's about to have a scalpel in his mouth, he feels inclined to humor him.

"Okay, Dean." Serious now. "We're going to give you a sedative, and you'll be out of here in no time." Dean watches as the doctor expertly slides a syringe into the crook of his elbow and slowly plunges in the clear liquid. Turning his attention back to Dean, the doctor hands him a small plastic tube. "Here, hang onto this for me," he says, his eyes twinkling again.

Dean takes it and looks at the tube clenched in his fist. Then his eyebrows rise - his fingers slowly loosen even as he struggles to hold it tighter. The doctor snickers good-naturedly as the relaxant starts to take effect. Dean lazily realizes that he'd be screwed if he needed to hold a gun right now. But he can't seem to care, a low chuckle rumbling from his own lungs as the tube falls from his grasp and he slips into sleep.

--

It feels like moments later. Dean first becomes aware of the cot under him. He's flat on his back. Then he tunes into the country western music playing quietly throughout the office. It drones on and on, commiserating with his pain. Finally his tongue finds invasive cotton stuffed into each of his cheeks.

He turns his head on the pillow, yet to open his eyes. The movement makes his head swim a little and he belatedly notices that his whole face is numb.

He doesn't move for a few minutes. Paces time by the come and go of songs overhead. Thinks about cutting out and finding the Impala. He could curl up there. Wait for Sam.

Speaking of Sam - he hears him in the hallway. Arguing. "You have to let me sit with him. When he wakes up, he's not going to stay put."

"Sir, we'll check on him in a minute. Let him wake up on his own."

"Seriously, he'll be gone. Take off." Dean giggles at how well Sam knows him and then sobers abruptly when the sound is muffled by his uncooperative lips.

He ventures to open his eyes just as Sam comes through the door.

"Hey," Sam greets him.

He swallows and watches the expressions flit across Sam's face: anxiety, assessment, concern, resolve. A nurse emerges from behind him - had been totally eclipsed by his gigantic brother. It makes Dean titter to himself again.

"Just sit with him and give him some time to wake up."

Sam nods, not taking his eyes off Dean, and pulls a chair closer.

Dean watches Sam. Blinks a few times. Each time he shuts his eyes, it takes a moment to register that he forgot to open them back up, and he struggles to focus. Sam cocks his head at him. Seems amused.

Dean does an internal assessment, starting with the dull ache in his jaw and the intrusive cotton that is leaching the moisture from his mouth. His face feels twice its normal size, but he's pretty sure it's due to the numbness.

Something's on his wrist. He lifts his head enough to peer down, arm temporarily too heavy to lift.

A green bracelet. That's new. He looks at Sam. Clears his parched throat. Licks his lips.

"Sam?"

"Yeah?"

"There's a green bracelet on my arm... and it's... green."

Sam nods seriously. "I see."

The head movement didn't make his stomach very happy; Dean closes his eyes.

He feels Sam's hand on his wrist.

"It says 'Wisdom.' Has the doctor's name and number." He sniggers. "He took out your wisdom teeth and gave you a wisdom bracelet."

"A green one."

Sam's voice warms with concern. "You look a little green, yourself. You okay?"

Dean doesn't answer, but rolls towards Sam as his stomach rebels; he's pretty sure that Sam will be ready.

--

On the way back to the hotel, they swing by the pharmacy to get The Good Drugs. His face is slowly regaining feeling and Dean is starting to think the my-face-feels-huge numbness may not have so much to do with the numbness, and more to do with actual swelling.

At the hotel, he clumsily swallows pills through a mouthful of cotton, balances an ice pack as securely as he can, and blacks out willingly.

Hours later he rolls groggily to the side, the buzzing in his head turning out to be a blender whirling away in their kitchenette.

He slaps a hand a little uncoordinatedly to his face, flinches as it comes into contact with tender bruising; then he pushes to a sitting position and waits to acclimate to the new altitude. So far, so good. His stomach rumbles, and he orients to Sam. The orange mush that is spinning looks less than appetizing. Like it's already been digested once and is coming back for another go around.

He stumbles his way to the bathroom and relieves himself, and finally gets a good look in the mirror. His face isn't too bad yet. A little puffy around the gills, but nothing that justifies the ache in his jaw or the queasiness in his stomach.

Sam knocks and then the door slowly opens.

"How you doing?"

Dean scowls into the mirror.

"You need to rinse out your incisions. Here's some salt water; pull out the cotton."

Dean's hand is a little shaky as he cautiously opens and fingers for the intrusive gauze. He pulls out all four pieces, dropping them into the sink and retroactively cringing at how it tugged on the wounds.

He coughs and spits and then his stomach pitches at the sight of his blood in the sink.

He turns and vomits harshly into the toilet, then sags miserably - gags again at the sight of blood and thick clots floating in the water. His mouth tastes of copper and he is suddenly drenched with cold sweat.

"Shit, man." Sam is suddenly towering over him, tugging him close with one hand and letting him lean against his legs as he reaches over and flushes the toilet with the other. "Here." He hands Dean a cup. "Just rinse. Don't swallow."

Dean rinses his mouth gently.

"Now rinse it all the way to the back," Sam commands, not taking the cup when Dean pushes it back at him. "Rinse out where the cotton was."

It stings a little when the salt infiltrates the stitches, but it washes away the cotton taste and rehydrating his mouth feels good. He rinses again and then coughs and spits blood when some of the salty water trickles down his throat. Sam trades him then for a cup of fresh water and he drinks cautiously, his other hand wrapped carefully around his still queasy stomach.

Sam pulls him to his feet and hands him some new cotton squares. "Fuck." Dean's voice is hoarse and miserable, even to his own ears.

"Come on, man. All the way in the back. You're gonna be bleeding again with all the up-chucking."

Dean complies, pushing it deep, breaking out in a renewed sweat.

Sam's hand is wrapped tightly around his bicep and he's watching him closely, standing almost flush at Dean's side. Dean wants to push him away, regain a little personal space, but his face hurts and his stomach's sick, and Sam's really warm and steady.

Gentle nudges and he finds himself back in his bed, Sam replacing his drool-bloodied pillow with one from his own bed. He props Dean up against the headboard and pushes more pills into Dean's hand. Dean swallows them carefully, trying to work around the cotton wads.

Dean watches Sam make his way back to the counter.

"Sam?"

"Yeah?"

"This sucks."

"Yeah... maybe some food will settle your stomach?"

He shifts down to make himself more comfortable and waits for the pills to take effect.

"Sam?"

"Yeah?"

"I haven't eaten for three days. That orange crap better not be for me."

Dean hears Sam's surprised laugh and then hears dishes being moved around in the kitchen. "Huh. Ok. There's a diner across the street. How about... Sloppy Joes and mashed potatoes?"

Dean relaxes into the bed. "Don't forget the gravy."

--

end.


End file.
